I guess I finally got mugged

I say "I guess" because it was more like a couple young guys getting high on power, and I'm not totally sure why I didn't get beat up. But let me explain:

I went to hear some African drumming last night, which was played at a level that could have been dropped 40 decibels and still would have caused hearing damage (typical to Brazilian music venues and clubs, I've found), and was going to catch the bus home. I was a little drunk from caxaca but it was only about 10:30, not so late. Sitting at the bus stop, I saw a dead kitten kicked to the curb, its body battered by the day's heavy rain and who knows what else. Maybe it was an omen. The buses weren't running with such frequency; only one bus every 5 minutes or so instead of 5 buses every minute. I was waiting with a crowd of maybe 20 other people (all Brazilian) when a couple young guys sat on either side of me and started talking in English. Harassing me, more like. That was strange though, because English skills are usually a mark of some wealth and education here. They were asking me if I was from Italy, and I tried to play dumb, and asked if they spoke Spanish (because most people here don't). They rested their hands on my shoulders, and one of them tapped me violently on the forehead, insisting I understood him. They had these angry, aggressive smiles on their faces. I wasn't totally sure what they intended to do, but I knew none of the people around were going to intervene (Luiz explained this to me about violence in Brazil - more below on Luiz). So I thought I would remove myself from the situation, and hope they didn't follow me. I went back to the elevator (directly behind the bus stop), where there are usually people and at least the operators, for sure. The guys followed me, and there was no one but the guy taking the money, a long empty hallway, and then a guy running the elevator. I thought to myself "I think I'm about to get the shit kicked out of me." I wasn't alarmed, I think more just resigned to the situation. I didn't have anything much worth taking, just the equivalent of about US$15, but I don't really know that the guys were after money. One put his hand on my shoulder and escorted me into the elevator. They were still trying to talk to me, and now I wasn't sure what they were saying. Then, as the elevator shot up 15 stories, one guy shoved his hand into my pocket, where he'd watched me reach for my fare, and pulled out two notes worth about $2.50. "This is mine! This is mine for jorimba!" or something like that. I just said "OK," the elevator doors opened, I got out, they stayed in (usually there are more cops at the top of the elevator). I didn't see any police, but like I said, I was in a weird sort of autopilot, not so amped up from adrenaline, or fear, or anything, so I just sort of noticed the fact instead of becoming alarmed by it. I still had cash in my pocket that they guy had missed or ignored (or something), so I went to try and find a bed in Pelorinho (lots of hostels there, where lots of people actually stay which I think is fuckin crazy. There are nearby neighborhoods that are much safer). On my search, men watched me from shadows with lurid interest, and disoriented, spent looking women offered me massages. Peolorinho is not a happy place, especially at night. I found a place that wanted 30 reais, and the guy grumbled as I told my story and showed him the 20 and change I had on me. He led me to the top of the building, into a room with nothing but slate tiles between me and the sky, a sodden-looking bed, and large water barrels suspended on the ceiling. That night, I swear a hurricane hit - the wooden shutter that covered my window didn't latch, and at night I awoke suddenly to a lakes worth of rain pouring in, along with an angry wind carrying soggy debris. I could barely close the window, although it was fit so poorly that once I did get it closed friction held it against the wind. I curled back up on the bed in my clothes, wished I had a blanket, but was happy that the pillow was made of foam (Brazil has the Latin American problem of pillows filled with rolled-up socks). I awoke that morning, feeling tired and hungover. Back on the streets, I saw lots of cops and pale tourists toting their backpacks about. Life had returned to the happy, sunny normalcy of the rich traveller.

I leave for Rio tonight. Which is fine by me, there's not much to do here besides eat and go to the beach, and it's been raining too much for the latter. I've decided that I have a Donut Theory of Travel: the best amount of time to spend in a place is either a short amount of time, or a long one - if you can't stay for a month or two, long enough to actually make friends and learn what it's like to live in a place, just stay for a few days or a week (depending) and take off. Don't fall into the "donut hole" in the middle, where you've seen all the sights, but aren't going to be staying long enough to have favorite restaurants or hangouts, or take lessons (language or dance or something). Being in a place in the donut hole is just a waste of time. Trick is, each place has a different amount of time before you fall in the hole. I think for Salvador, I hit the hole around day 4. My last 4 days have been an idle haze, feeling like I'm just existing in a time bubble until I move on.

I've been staying with a couchsurfer named Luiz, in his tiny apartment in the neighborhood of Imbui. There's a front room, containing a small desk, fridge, and sink; his bedroom; and the bathroom. When my inflatable mattress is laid on the floor, it pretty much takes up the whole front room. It's cozy, you know? I think the thing that strikes me most about the apartment is that there is no counter space. There's no place to just put something, like if I'm cooking, where do I cut up my vegetables if there's not even a flat space, let alone a cutting board? I guess I see why Luiz doesn't cook much.

Luiz is a physical therapist in the Brazilian Air Force, a little taller than me and of a lot thicker build (although who isn't, really?). He's a good guy, but a little nervous. He keeps telling me about the siege mentality that Brazilians live under, like how the other guy is going to try and hurt/rob/screw you; how the girl is going to try and spike your drink and sell your organs. Being an outsider, it's impossible for me to tell how much of this is the result of an inflated imagination and how much is the result of cold reality. However, given my recent misadventures in Pelorinho, and how much I hear other people talking about this stuff, I'm inclined to believe the latter. It sucks though, because Luiz didn't want to give me a key (I guess figuring I could pawn his stuff and abscond into the void or something), which basically means I get booted out of the apartment when he leaves for work in the morning at around 7:30. I'm kind of a reverse prisoner - I can't stay cooped up, even if I want to, which I most definitely have a couple of mornings. Instead, I usually have Luiz drop me at the beach on his way to work, since Imbui itself pretty much has nothing to do unless I want to buy socks or something. At first the idea was for me to surf, but that pretty much went to Hell once I actually tried to do it. The surf around Salvador is nothing like the calm little waves I learned on in Pipa. After a morning spent haggling with different people about prices for renting a board for five days, I spent about 10 minutes just trying to paddle out while huge wave after huge wave pounded me into the sand, and quickly into submission. I figure it was better to have tried than to sit on the beach every day wishing I was surfing, but I also figure it was better to give up than to drown, alone, in the riptide of a foreign country (although this is when my "repatriation of remains" part of my health insurance would have come in handy. Like I give a shit. I'm dead, remember?)

Anyways, I've been feeling like a bit of a vagabond, going to the beach and trying to find a tranquil spot to sleep more, hiding out in the bus shelter when it starts to rain, and returning again and again to the supermarket across the street to use the bathroom (one day, it was really cold and rainy outside, and I was really tired, and I sat in the bathroom stall for maybe 30 minutes power napping). It's not my ideal morning, but I don't know what else to do really (having exhausted the tourist options here; dance classes not being held on the weekends; music only being played at night), so there it is.

So I've definitely gotten my share of beach days here, both good and bad, and Luiz has taken me out in his spare time quite a bit. We went to a BBQ at a friend of his on his day off, and pretty much spend from 1pm to sundown drinking beers and eating meet. I didn't need dinner or breakfast afterward that. I also told Luiz I wanted to eat regional cuisine, so he took me to Yemanja for the best moqueca in town - moqueca is kind of like a yellow curry, except not spicy, and has onions, garlic, tomato and cilantro, plus meat a gusto, although shrimp is popular (and was our selection). The dish is always cooked in a traditional capixaba pot, made from clay and wood sap, and served with rice and hot pepper oil, and it's big enough for two. For desert, we had a variety of shaved coconut flavors: one with condensed milk, one with dulce de leite, and one with condensed milk cooked over the stove for a smoky, strong flavor. Good stuff.

We also went to have bacalhau, a salted cod dish from Portugal considered a delicacy and eaten on important days like Christmas Eve and Good Friday. We went out on Brazilian fathers day, a busy day for restaurants all over town, and waited in front of the restaurants handicap-accessible bathroom (with a large cabinet placed in front of the door) for our table. When we were seated, we started with bolinhos de bacalhau, which are little balls from marginal bits of the cod mixed with potatoes, egg, and parsley, and then fried. The main dish is boiled diced potatoes, parsley, shredded fish, and halves of hard boiled egg. It's served with rice and drizzled with olive oil, and is tasty and filling.

So, like I said, I am in the travel-donut in Salvador, time-wise. I'll be happy to head to Rio tomorrow.

I officially pass as Italian

I met an Italian who explained to me that virtually the whole country shuts down and goes on holiday for the month of August. Many of them travel, and many travel to Brazil. So now, most people assume I'm Italian, and that's their lead-in to sell me something: "so, you're Italian?" This happens a lot on the beaches here in Salvador, which are lined with strings of identical restaurants, all devoid of customers, and all desperate to pull in an obvious foreigner (I guess I'm not in Buenos Aires any more, where I was local as long as I wasn't wearing my hiking boots or talking). Walking down the beach, I attract a flock of would-be waiters, trying to explain to me why their restaurant is the most tranquil, with the best food, and special prices. Even though you can't even tell where the plastic beach tables of one restaurant end, and the next restaurant begins, somehow they are convinced of their uniqueness. Anyways, it's 10am and I'm not ready for lunch, or for beer! Fuck off! That's the attitude I can't help but have. I don't yell at anyone, but I seethe inside. It's that old fight-or-flight mechanism.

Right now I'm in the downtown of Salvador, the old city center that is called Pelorinho (which is the word for the big pole they used to tie thieves and antsy slaves to before the whipping), and it's almost as bad as Cusco. The architecture is really nice, but I've seen so much colonial architecture now that I'm totally over it. And otherwise, I don't know what appeal there is: it's just row after row of chinsy stores with a slight edge of neediness trying to sell racially insensitive statues of olde tyme black folk (you know, with the exaggerated lips and eyes) and leather goods and googly-eyed walnuts and t-shirts and stuff. In the plazas, the capoeira dancers aggressively seek money from anyone trying to film or take pictures, and young boys laugh and play before quickly putting on the Sad Puppy Face to solicit money from someone with their micro-fiber travel shirt tucked into their Bermuda shorts. The only saving grace is the towering monolith of quadruple elevators that carry people 150 feet up and down the cliffs from the Upper City to the Lower City. It's all giant and marble, and going down you can feel your stomach in your throat. It was built in the late 19th century, and is always busy. Cool stuff. There's a Valparaiso-style ascensor that runs the cliff, too, but there's only one and it seems wannabe so I'm not that impressed.

I did get to see some real capoeira, from a school that was performing, and that was really fun. There was a lot more interaction between the two people playing (you "play," not "dance" capoeira), and less showboating than the stuff done for money. It looked more fun, more like something I could do and would want to do. Capoeira is based on a fighting style developed by African slaves in Brazil, but isn't an actual fight. Sometimes it's a pseudo-fight, where players show how they COULD have attacked an opponent, without actually completing the attack; other times it's more like a dance, where the players complement each other and move together. But when I was watching the school, there were two guys who got up and looked really different: they were much more squared off, and didn't look like they wanted to play, but like they wanted to fight. Sure enough, maybe 30 seconds into the song, they attacked each other. We were in a public square, the police got involved, capoeira was over. Shame.



On the plus side, I had a great time walking down the street on the way into Pelorinho, which is where the locals shop for cheap clothes and electronics and there are multitudes of yummy street vendors selling a variety of tasty treats. In fact, my walk through that part of town was yesterday, and I never made it to Pelorinho, 4 blocks away, so had to come back today. Today has been much more disappointing, but yesterday I got to eat: brigadeiro, a kind of extra-thick dulce de leche with chocolate and sprinkles on top, the size of a large bon-bon but with a weight of about two pounds; acaraje, a traditional snack brought from Nigeria that is a large ball of chick peas fried in palm oil, cut open and filled with a spicy paste, lentils, some sort of okra concoction (recognizable by its snot-like consistency - no, it's good, really), something akin to pico de gallo, and salty, dried shrimp; I stopped at my regular ice cream guy (who now recognizes me and greets me with an "aAaah!"), who really serves up something closer to frozen fruits mixed with milk - I like the coconut varieties best, either straight up or with guava mixed in; caxinha, a fried ball of dough filled with meat or cheese; rambutan, little red hairy fruits some of you may know from Thailand; boiled peanuts, another favorite of mine from Thailand that I was excited to find; and fried rolls of tapioca coated in cinnamon and sugar. The last are called boledo sedanje or something like that; sorry but Portuguese ties my tongue in a knot (and however you're trying to pronounce it, let me just tell you - you're wrong).



Portuguese is very, very difficult. I still feel like people are talking backwards to me. There are no hard and fast rules about pronunciation, and every region does it different, to boot. An H at the beginning of the word is silent; in the middle it makes what in English would be a Y sound (ya). An X is for us an SH; J and G are pronounced in a whole variety of ways I don't know the rules for and am always slaughtering in my own pronunciations. T makes a CH sounds (obviously). I met an Argentine at the hostel I stayed at when I first arrived (toting a grocery sack of mate of course), and when I spoke Spanish with him it seemed so easy and fun, I could actually understand and respond, and my Spanish is honestly not very good (and I'm forgetting more every day, I'm finding).



I have just enough of the language to muddle my way through normal day to day operations; that is I can get everything I need to survive (read: food, water, lodging). Other than that, I feel like the two year old who can't voice the words he feels, like I was at the beginning of my trip in Spanish. It's making me feel lonely and homesick, and I'm wondering if Brazil was the best way to finish off my trip. When language is dropped from the equation, relationships between people seem to devolve to pure ego, ie what can be extracted from the other: money, sex, simple entertainment (hey ma, look at that pale skinned feller! He talks funny!), whatever. This idea becomes distilled and intensified in places like Cusco and Pelorinho, which is what makes them such a drag to visit. There have been so many times that I have been so tired of being a tourist, and just wanted to sit down with someone in these places and just talk to them, but first I would have to get past the idea that I would be eventually buying something, difficult enough - but then I would have to contend with the fact that I just don't have the language skills for a serious conversation. Even with people who speak good English, there is still a cultural barrier that is difficult to cross (I've found this even when economics is taken out of the equation, ie with Europen backpackers). And joking around in a way that I can do with other Americans is damn near impossible. It will be a strange relief to be home in a couple weeks, I think.



Still though, there are good times to be had here. Making your way down the streets of Salvador, dodging the rain created by AC machines overhead furiously trying to scrub moisture from the air, you can find lots of cool random stuff. I have seen several quality vinyl shops, with new stuff, autographed stuff, old stuff, local and international stuff. Whether you want the Smurfs in Portuguese or an autographed Led Zepplin, it can all be found in the shops of downtown Salvador. I wandered into a book store one day, too, which was fun - international bookstores always have an interesting variety of books in English. This one had the usual assortment of cheap thrillers and romance novels (including a whole dime-store series from the 60's), but also a bunch of weird stuff that I wonder the history of: "Anglo-American Rules of Categorization," "Atlas of British Social and Economic History since 1700," (don't these sound like fun reads? You can see a graphical layout of pubs per 100,000 in the UK), "Design of Educational Exhibits," "Journeys of the Mind" (this one appeared to be bad short stories interlaced with pictures that looked like they should be airbrushed on the side of a van), "The 22 Immutable Laws of Branding." You could tell it wasn't a tourist bookstore - there were no Lonely Planets, and everything was hardcover (backpackers hate hardcovers). Everything had a healthy layer of dust on top.

Important things to know about Brazil:

The thumbs-up is widely used here, which I love. It basically just means "OK," and can be used to signify understanding, or thanks, or just acknowledgment. Like if someone stops their car to let you cross the road, flash them a thumbs up.

Motels in Brazil are exclusively for short-term stays, are usually pretty nice (I hear), and often have a round bed and a porn-only TV. They often include well-kept amenities, like hot tubs and saunas, and there is no stigma attached (like in other Latin countries, young couples live with their parents and need someplace to go). Motels advertise on TV (I saw one for the "Love Motel," which looked nicer than anyplace I have stayed my whole trip. $10 for 3 hours), and on Valentines, there is a line to get in.

Go to the beach or go home. Or go to the beach and then go home, and shower. Beach mist coats your skin with crud, and gives your hair a life of its own.

In Brazil supermarkets, they allow installments on everything. I saw a sale on Johnny Walker, which could be picked up for no money down and 3 easy payments (can they honestly tell me no one abuses this system?).

Beaches are nice, but getting to them is a different story

I finally made it to Salvador, and finally realized how burned out I'm becoming of travel: it's just no fun being on some bus with all your stuff in the middle of the night, in a country whose language you don't speak, in a city that is famous for violent crime, hoping you get off at the right place, let alone make it from the stop to your hostel in one piece. While I've always found safety warnings to be overblown, I've met enough Brazilians and people who have lived in Brazil to get the feeling like you definitely don't want to wander down the wrong street in the big cities. So the hour long ride in from the airport was kind of an anxious one. Then the bus driver almost pulled off with my bags still underneath, due to a little miscommunication (because at best, I can say I speak Portanol, or Portuguese mixed with Spanish). And this burnout was before my little misadventure last night: I had been invited by some friends from Pipa to go to a national park a few hours west of Salvador; I was supposed to meet them at the bus station around 10:30 at night. So I hopped a bus which was labeled rodoviaria (bus station) with all my crap. Because I wanted to know when I should keep my eye out for the stop, I asked the driver how long to the station. He replied with a bunch of Portuguese I didn't really understand, the jist of which was either a) this bus doesn't go to the bus station. Go back to Shopping Barra, where you got on, and get the right bus; b) this bus doesn't go to the bus station, continue on this bus to Shopping Something Else, and change buses; or c) this bus doesn't go to the bus station, but get off at Shopping Something Else and you'll be real close. So he's saying this to me, the bus is doing about 75mph down bumpy, twisting roads (why do bus drivers in poor countries always drive like maniacs?), and making so much noise I'm barely catching the words I know, let alone being able to try and get the ones I don't. Meanwhile, I'm getting a bit panicky, because I don't know if I need to get off and change buses right away, while every second I hesitate I'm being taken into a hostile, unfamiliar part of of the city late at night with all my bags and no map and barely any Portuguese. Eventually I decide that he's trying to tell me c), so I just say "tell me when," and take my seat. Meanwhile, the bus fills up, people are looking at me like a jerk for taking up two seats, I'm feeling like a jerk for taking up two seats, and I'm totally anxious because I really have no idea what's going on. About 45 minutes later, we arrive at Shopping Someplace, with the rodoviaria in plane view. I wanted to tell the driver that next time he can keep it simple and just say "yes, we go to the rodoviaria. I'll tell you when to get off." So I get into the rodoviaria, and there are no tickets left (my friends had said they were the only ones on the bus when they bought their tickets earlier that day, and that I should have no problems). I don't even see my friends, so now I have to figure out how to get back from whence I came. This involved asking five people and going to three bus tops, and then waiting about an hour for the bus. At about midnight, in a sparsely populated street with all my stuff. And then getting on the new bus and having the same experience of not knowing exactly where I am, and hoping I get off in the right place and back to the hostel OK. In short, I am tired of buses, and carrying lots of junk around on my back, and not speaking the language.

While I'm complaining, can I just say that the hardest thing I have to do in South America, in terms of logistical difficulty, is to make a fucking phone call? Every country has a different system. In Brazil, there are no locutorios, businesses where you can make a call to anyplace and pay when you're done for the time used, and ask questions if you need help. There are pay phones, but they don't take change: you have to buy a pre-paid card. And don't try calling the 800 number on the back, because that will get you nowhere. You have to slide the card into the slot on the side of the phone. And make sure you buy a large card, because $2.50 gets you about 30 seconds when calling a cell phone (which is what everyone here uses, of course). So making a phone call today, I had to ask 3 different people four different questions, and buy two different phone cards, to make a one minute phone call.

So I have spent one day in Salvador, but haven't yet found the tasty food and fun music I had been hoping for. But I am meeting up with a Couchsurfer tonight to stay at his place, so he should know where the good spots are. There are lots of nice beaches, and I have surfing on the brain; in fact, flying down from Natal made me realize that the coast of Brazil is literally just one giant beach and surf spot. Except Recife, which apparently has too many sharks to surf. But when I was in 4th grade, I knew all there was to know about sharks, so I'm sure I wouldn't let that stop me. I went for a walk on the beach today and watched the surfers; the sand was the exact consistency as if God had dumped a giant bag of light brown sugar along the coast, and locals were line fishing in the ocean. I didn't drink out of any coconuts, but it was still pretty nice.

Brazil life revolves around the beach; go to any shop that has clothes and your options are beach shorts and shirts with surfing themes, or nudity (ironically, for a culture that is so sexually open, going topless at the beach is actually a big no-no). Flip flops are considered formal wear, fit for weddings or bar mitzvahs, and I think shorts are OK for anything except maybe Church. Ironically though (again), Brazilians in the cities still look pretty fancy, just in a different way from the more formal fanciness of other countries in South America. Actually being a scrubby surf bum makes you look... well, scrubby. I realized this yesterday at the mall, where I caught sight of myself in a well lit, full length mirror for the first time in several weeks. Somehow, wearing the same clothes for days on end, having straw-like, salt-stained hair, and grubby, peeling skin isn't so sexy in the world of the mall. Especially since right before I saw myself, I saw a group of really skinny, really tall people, mostly girls, looking definitely made up and definitely sexy. Then I noticed the portfolios and self-portraits in their hands; it was some kind of model try-out (a sidenote, models are even skinnier and weirder looking in real life than they are in magazines. I swear every one of those girls I saw has an eating disorder. What, I said "sexy," not "attractive"). I guess I thought I was fitting right in with my look, but I think a closer description of how I was looking would be "homeless."

In closing, I would like to describe the traditional Brazilian method of getting the attention of someone who is waiting on you (eg waiter or sales clerk): his loudly, like an angry cobra, and wave your hand wildly. There are some customs that I will just never adapt to...

Goodbye Pipa, hello Brazil

It's my last day in Pipa, and while it wasn't what I had expected, exactly, I am starting to feel like I will miss this place. 10 days is just long enough to feel like a stride has been reached - I have a nice little routine of big breakfast, beach and surfing, walk home along the coves, lunch at my favorite spot, nap, lounge, dinner, party. I've met some cool folks at my hostel, and am really starting to enjoy surfing. On the other hand, I still feel like I haven't actually gotten to Brazil yet, and I think I might go totally insane living in this place - everyone knows everyone else, and like all small towns, the people seem to spend most of their time talking about each other. Not my bag.


I surfed Madeiro beach today for the last time, and had an awesome day. It was my fourth time out (a back sprain kept me off the waves for a couple of days. That and drinking heavily), and the surf was perfect - the waves were breaking far from shore, leaving plenty of space to ride, and were coming in with a steady but not too fast consistency. I caught almost every one I tried. Riding for 20 seconds even after a 10 minute wait for the wave to be a good one and your position to be just right to hit it is just so amazingly cool. I couldn't help but smile like a boy each time I felt the wave lift me up, and fly with me towards the shore. Definately one of the most joyful, rewarding experiences of my trip. I'm used to snowboarding, but surfing is really different. It's not just the balance and feel of the board, or snow versus water, but the whole thing: surfing is as much about enjoying yourself out on the ocean, paddling about and feeling the sun on your back, and taking breaks on the beach; watching for the good waves and where they break; watching as the good surf disappears and having to wait half a day for it to come back with the tide. Unlike snowboarding, where people have decided to cut down a bunch of trees, build a bunch of ski lifts, and maybe even make artificial snow, with surfing you have to wait for nature to accommodate the people. There's no feeling of "we came all this way, and paid all this money - we have to get in as many runs as we can, especially before the good snow gets all tracked up." It's more chill, the beach is right there, and every day is a good day.


My usual list of idiosyncrasies and observations I enjoyed or became annoyed with, Pipa: each morning, at breakfast, the folks at my pousada (guest house) set out a large spread, and then take a spoon, knife, and fork from the silver wear drawer and put them into a plastic sleeve, so I can remove the cutlery from the sleeve and eat with it. Many restaurants in town follow suit. A ridiculous waste of plastic? I vote yes.

One morning, the folks at the pousada decided they needed to fix all the doors - some of them stuck when closed - so they busted out the electric planer and did them all at once, whether or not there were guests about. This caused a shower of sawdust and wood chips to accumulate in my room. I guess when it's the day to do the doors, it's the day to do the doors, regardless of consequences like having your guests wonder "what the fuck are you doing?"

Sunscreen here costs $25 a bottle for anything above SPF 5. Lucky I brought some. In fact, the stronger it is, the more it costs. It's a good leson in the economics idea of "willingness to pay": the whiter, the richer (probably), so the more they will shell out to not turn into a lobster. Man, if only I could graph in this blog program, I could really entertain everyone with a consumer/producer surplus breakdown.

My observation on Brazilian men: one night, at a small party where I was the only gringo, I was talking with this girl, who was the only other one who didn't speak only Portuguese. Our having a conversation was enough for her boyfriend to become enraged with her and violent towards me, but even stronger was his need to go lock himself in the bathroom in protest so half the party could go coax him out by reassuring his fragile ego. In the meantime, the other half of the party reassured my fragile ego (attached as it is to this material world) that the boyfriend would not actually be kicking the crap out of me; it was just that Brazilian men were actually children in large bodies.

My observation on Brazilian women: sexy plexy, the rumors are true.

Just like Chile, Brazil seems not to have figured out can openers. The one in my pousada kitchen is even harder to use than the one from my apartment in Chile; it takes 10 minutes to open a can and leaves the user with a cramped wrist (it's basically a small blade that is used to cut the metal open, with some aid from leverage in the form of a paper-thin metal handle). My new life-plan: open a factory that makes regular US of A style, geared can openers, and sell them to the burgeoning middle-class-cum-tendinitis residents of my host culture. This will, easily, make me one hundred billion dollars. Does anyone know how to build a factory?

Arm wrestling is apparently popular in Brazil: I went to the gym one day, where the guys who worked there explained that there are circuits in every town, and then state and regional championships. Small amounts of money (like $3) are won and lost in each round. Unlike in arm wrestling competitions I have seen back home, bending your opponents wrist and using your whole body for leverage are essential points of strategy. I played with two large gym employees (not for cash) who showed me how it worked, and toyed with me as I struggled to move their arms (which were the size of my legs) to the table; next they brought over the skinny boy of the gym, who had to make sure I knew what a sissy I was by beating me instantly (this after he enclosed my hand in a grip that could crush a coconut. I knew what was coming).

Sand: once it gets in, it doesn't come out.

One night, I saw a group of boys and a couple of men making some sort of festivity in the street; three boys were dressed up as a bull while the man sort of taunted it and danced around and the other boys played cheap plastic drums or maracas. They were all painted in blackface. I thought it must have been some sort of special holiday celebrating African culture in Brazil, until I saw the same thing the next two nights, and noticed that a hat was prominently passed to collect cash. Now I tell stories to the tourists snapping pictures that this is a special celebration that the Portuguese slaves used to do to instigate a bumper crop and a rain of meteors from the sky that would kill all the slave masters, and that it's the most important day of the year in Pipa.

On the beach, I love to have a coconut hacked open with a machete for me, so I can drink the milk. Then, I have them crack the nut in half, and slice off a small piece for use as a spoon, so I can eat the flesh inside. It's so mother fucking tropical, to sit on the beach and drink coconut milk, that I want to snort said milk out my nose in joy. It's almost as good as the pineapple juice drinks they serve up - inside a hollowed out pineapple.

Tomorrow, flight to Salvador, Africa-in-Brazil. Maybe the title of this post is a misnomer? Can't wait to samba, eat tasty African food, and maybe even surf some more. Travel is good.